


Bespoke

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: Winter Mornings - HeAteUs Survival Plan [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Suit Porn, Wall Sex, domestically fluffy smut, not quite the opera, suits in general, will in a suit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:07:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1889580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It is not an improvement so much as a very pleasing change. </i>
</p><p>Set within the Ya'aburnee verse, during the domestic bliss stage. Will gets a bespoke suit. Hannibal enjoys it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bespoke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zadikall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zadikall/gifts).



> A gift for the very deserving Zadikall. Thank you, love, for all your support, all your words and generosity, for your kindness and your amazingness. We love you very much <3

Will plants his hands on his hips, mouth skewed in thought and brows furrowed.

It’s a troubling development.

Piecing together crime scenes from blood splattered and pooled on myriad surfaces. Studying overlooked details to form a story, a vision of the person - or persons - who let out their wrath on another. Merging everything seen and unseen into a vision of a plan, a design, for incomprehensible acts of violence and destruction.

This is Will’s strength, the analytic capability that’s made him a known name in FBI headquarters and countless local investigations.

And he doesn’t remember the last time he’s been so absolutely at a loss as overlooking the spread of expensive, dark fabric laid across his own bed.

“Winston, no,” Will murmurs, snapping his fingers lightly at the fluffy-tailed dog who stopped to sniff them.

The influence had started much sooner. First, Will’s socks had come back, from the floor, now woven in heavy threads and in darker colors. Then the underwear.

Now this.

Will chews his lip, brows furrowed.

The fabric is beautiful, heavy, comfortable. Will knows when he wears it, it will be warm against him. Knows that when Hannibal sees him it will light up his eyes, set his lips into a soft smile.

He swallows, imagining Hannibal taking the suit off him.

"He gave me a goddamn cravat,” he mutters.

They’re just clothes.

Bespoke, tailored, and no doubt incredibly expensive clothes.

He sighs.

They’re just clothes.

Will draws a deep breath and lets it out all at once, rolling his eyes at himself and tugging on the socks first, followed by the pants that earn a hum of approval when they sit just right against his hips, without needing a belt.

He thinks back with a slight smile to watching Hannibal dress in the mornings, himself warm and naked beneath piles of blankets drawn up close around him. The way Hannibal’s fingers move over the buttons as though they each require their own particular thought, the ease of looping his tie into ornate configurations and settling it just so against the hollow of his throat, the shift of his shoulders when he shrugs into his waistcoat.

Will’s smile widens just a little, and he mimics the movements from memory, surprised by how unobtrusive the materials feel against him, soft and heavy without being smothering, and without being as worn and threadbare as the clothes he normally finds comfortable. The sleeves draw a moment of consternation, until he notices that Hannibal at least spared him the indignity of having to figure out cufflinks.

The coat, velvet so black it almost seems to absorb the light, slides on easily and Will is again pleasantly surprised at how warm it feels, how well-fitted rather than large enough for him to hide in. Despite the absurdity of a coat being made from such impractical material, Will runs his fingers over his arms in secret appreciation for how soft it feels, and picks off the few stray dog hairs that have collected on it, until it’s starless sky black again.

Stepping back, Will studies himself in the mirror, rubbing a hand over his jaw. Wonders if he should shave, and snorts at the thought. Wonders if he should brush his hair, and combs his fingers through it instead. It only fluffs the curls more, and he sighs.

It seems like such a lot of work, Will muses, considering the enormously high probability that within minutes, it’s all going to be stripped off again and he’ll find himself bent bare across the kitchen table.

Only the cravat waits on the bed, with Buster scooching nearer in increments of curiosity, and Will considers just putting it on Buster instead, before he tugs it away from the little dog and carries it out with him.

Cheeks already ruddy - somewhere between embarrassment and insecurity - he edges into the kitchen, where Hannibal is engaged in a curious staring game with the largest of the dogs, who seems to harbor a particular affection for him.

“I’ve never done this before.” An admission, mildly frustrated, as he offers out the cravat to Hannibal.

Dark eyes meet his, and in a moment become darker still. Hannibal just watches, allows himself to take in the man in front of him, messy-haired and gently flushed and dressed for the nines.

It is not an improvement so much as a very pleasing change. 

“I thought you would prefer it over a bow tie.” Hannibal says, amusement crinkling his eyes as he stands, a gentle motion of his hand keeps the dog from following and Will feels a strange tightness in his chest at that. He smiles when Hannibal steps close enough to touch, and resists the urge to.

“I didn’t realize all this was necessary for show.”

Hannibal’s smile deepens a little more and he parts his lips with the tip of his tongue, watching Will’s shift in a sympathetic motion.

“The kind of show I wish to take you to has a certain dress code.” he intones gently, taking the cravat from Will’s hand and motioning for him to lift his chin. He keeps his expression deliberately neutral at Will’s surprise.

“If such effort is to go into your presentation, Will, did you think you would merely be wearing this long enough for me to take it off?”

There is pure mischief in his eyes when he meets Will’s and he ducks his head to kiss under his jaw softly before setting the fabric around his neck - cool, heavy, silken. He smiles when Will shivers at the touch of it.

“But by all means imagine,” Hannibal continues, leaving the fabric draped over Will’s collarbones as he moves around to stand behind him, lips against Will’s ear as his hands come up to start the simple knot.

“Think of how slowly I can take this off you, linger on every button, over every fold…” his knuckles brush Will’s skin and the younger man gasps, resting his weight back against Hannibal more. He takes it with ease.

“Unwrap this beautiful composition to find my favourite thing beneath.”

Hands come up cool to undo the top three buttons of Will’s shirt and the profiler shivers, eyes closed now, perhaps unconsciously following Hannibal’s orders, perhaps deliberately. Both are beautiful things to imagine.

The cravat gets tucked down against Will’s chest, Hannibal’s fingers deliberate in tweaking a nipple before doing up the buttons again, the top undone to show the fold of fabric above it. Then he kisses behind Will’s ear and rests his hands against Will’s hips.

“Shall we go?”

A small sound of protest, a gentle fluster, as he leans back with a little more insistence against Hannibal. Hips first, pressing slow and rolling up the length of his spine until he wraps an arm around Hannibal's neck and draws him down until he feels the warmth of his breath across his ear.

"Do we have to?" Will asks, breath already rising a little harder, a little faster than before.

A particular and familiar coyness catches the corner of his lips when Hannibal mouths a noise of affirmation against his neck - yes, they must - and without further insistence, Will slides his fingers loose of his doctor's neck. Draws away from him, to push his hair back out of his face and resettle the collar of his coat.

"You're going to wrinkle it."

A mild admonition, playful even, but with a seriousness of expression and a slight arch in one brow.

Will feels absurd, wrapped up in expensive fabrics of unknown but undoubtedly extravagant provenance, revered through the adoring touches and lingering looks that fall soft against him in a way that feels nearly idolatrous. Blasphemous.

Like spilling priceless wine and eating cheap cereal out of fine porcelain.

He's surprised by how much he's starting to enjoy it, and the effortlessness with which he smiles and tilts his chin just so.

"After you, Doctor Lecter."

-

An opera is to be expected. Something extravagant and beautiful, refined in a way Hannibal seems to always be. So Will accepts it as a given, when they enter the hall and blend right in with the rest of the well-dressed crowd.

For a moment, Will feels the familiar fear run down his spine, at being seen. At being looked at and studied, like a slide under a microscope. At being singled out, immediately, as someone who doesn’t fit in. He feels Hannibal’s hand soothe the base of his back gently and sighs. 

No one is looking. No one has a reason to.

They walk through the main hall at a leisurely pace, and Will catches a look at himself in a mirrored door. It’s enough to widen his eyes, to part his lips and stop him, for a moment just studying himself, the way the suit sits against him, fitted perfectly, working with his body, not constraining it. Nothing like the few suits he has worn that did nothing more than make him feel like an animal on show.

Here he looks refined, he looks handsome, like he belongs next to Hannibal, who, for just a moment, spares the mirror a glance as he stands behind Will. Sees the way they look together before ducking his head.

“It’s the first time I’ve wished a show would finish before it’s begun,” his voice sinks low, to that timbre that automatically sends Will’s eyelids to close, his lips to tilt in a smile, brows to draw softly together.

Will reminds himself to breathe and does so, not heavily, but with restraint. Curiously amused by the image of them together, an unexpected pleasure in seeing himself in a way that feels worthy of how Hannibal always watches him.

His eyes catch even longer on Hannibal, the sleek lines of his suit - formal black over dark crimson, Will's favorite shirt to see him in - that tailored perfectly only just hints at the strength beneath. The effortless - aristocratic, Will considers - way in which he carries himself and the constant amusement, just there in the corners of his eyes, makes Will ache between his ribs with how beautiful he appears.

How beautiful he is.

It's but a moment, though, before Will turns from the reflection, a flush in his cheeks at Hannibal's words - to which he stalwartly does not respond, as though he did not hear them, although his slight smile and the particular angle at which he lifts his chin betrays him.

A waiter pauses near them and offers hors d'oeuvres and champagne, before the show begins, and Will takes up a flute without deferring to Hannibal for guidance.

Will's always been a quick learner.

"I haven't even asked what we're seeing," he notes, taking a sip.

“No.” Hannibal agrees, and unhelpfully does not elaborate. He also doesn’t take a glass, though he doesn’t chastise Will for enjoying his own. He enjoys, instead, the way Will moves in the new clothes, the way they make him stretch and bend, keep good posture, tilt his head.

Hannibal can see it’s quite deliberately for show, for him, and takes in every motion. He lets his eyes slide over the curve of Will’s jaw down to his neck. He settles on the pulse there, watches as it keeps a steady pace, just faster than his own. He is aware of Will’s preening, knows that Will is just as aware of Hannibal’s pleasure in seeing it.

He smiles softly when Will raises an expectant eyebrow and settles his glass between his fingers, near-empty.

“I hope you will forgive me a mild deception.” Hannibal allows, reaches to take Will’s glass and slowly finish the remnants within it.

“But I felt that a more gentle introduction to your formal attire, than opera, would make you more comfortable.”

He meets Will’s eyes over the rim of the glass and smiles wider, setting the empty glass aside on another tray that passes before gesturing down a corridor off the main lobby.

“Will I ever get a straight answer from you?” Will murmurs, obediently following. Hannibal tilts his head, amused.

“As soon as you do, dear Will, I fear you will again find me uninteresting.”

The corridor widens, opens up to another lobby, perhaps farther into the building than initially meets the eye from the street. Here, people meander just as well dressed as Will and Hannibal are, though the atmosphere is lighter. Calmer. It relaxes Will’s shoulders visibly as he turns to Hannibal.

“I do hope you like the circus, Will.” his doctor murmurs, gesturing to the colorful display above them, advertizing Cirque du Soleil's Varekai.

Will's smile breaks sudden and unexpected, so much so that he ducks his head, clears his throat behind his hand to allow it a moment to settle back into soft amusement.

"That is certainly the mildest deception I could imagine," he answers, finally, and the surprise is genuine, lingering in the corners of his eyes, though in truth he's as grateful for this as he would have been for opera, or anything Hannibal would share with him.

"I haven't been before," he admits after a moment of thought, taking in the theatre. "There weren't many opportunities."

He doesn't explain more than that, but something loosens in him a little, the fierce playfulness of posturing in his new clothes settles into something a little quieter, a little more comfortable.

When he's sure no one is looking, after a cursory glance, Will leans just a little closer, speaking warm against Hannibal's ear, "Thank you for not making me go to the opera."

He only just suppresses another grin before following Hannibal to their seats.

The show is sold out, and the seats they have are close enough to the stage to see everything clearly, far enough to not be bothered. They are in the middle of the row, comfortable, and Hannibal leans over to murmur to Will as everyone else settles in.

“I will take you to the opera,” he promises, a dangerous warmth underlying his tone, “When you earn the opera.”

It is a jest more than a threat, and he sends Will a gentle smile before settling more comfortably in his seat.

As the lights dim, he sets his hand against Will’s knee, a squeeze for reassurance, before taking it away.

Will sits tall in his seat, doesn't slouch low and sprawled as he would normally be inclined, and deliberately resists the urge to glance to Hannibal beside him.

The lingering smile says enough.

It would be unexpected, if Will had any idea what to expect, but this is far from anything he had anticipated seeing tonight. The movement of it all - contortionists and gymnasts, swells of music that more than once draws a quiet sigh from him - it's all a far cry from the staid and stoic affair he had readied himself for.

But even still, his mind wanders, as it's prone to do, to the man at his side. He feels that familiar stretch across his chest - remembers earlier, the way Hannibal had struck an amicable accord with his dog, the open adoration when he helped Will tie his cravat.

Will shivers, tilts his chin a little to feel the cool silk against his skin, and he waits for a particularly daring drop from a trapeze artist to allow a soft sound to pass his lips. It's lost in the exclamation of the crowd to all but Hannibal, a very particular note of noise meant only for him.

Hannibal doesn’t turn, doesn’t show any indication that he’s heard beyond the fact that his entire attention is now focused explicitly on Will. And he knows the younger man knows it. Just as his movements had been graceful and deliberate earlier, so the sound was now.

It’s something that strikes a far deeper chord in Hannibal, primal, animalistic. The sound Will usually makes when Hannibal’s hands are on him, when his lips are. Just a gentle tilt in the timbre and it’s the sound Will makes when Hannibal slowly spreads him open.

He brings his hands together to join the resounding applause as the artists leave the stage and another act takes their place.

Only then does he allow himself to turn his head, just enough, for the light to fall against his face, outline the shadows and dips and curves that Will knows by heart, and lick his bottom lip into his mouth in a brief motion. His top lip twitches, an expression that would be a sneer if not for the hunger behind it. 

Then he pays Will no more attention, and waits.

An even more interesting show has suddenly started, and Will smiles just faint, nothing less than challenging.

Dangerously pleased with what he's begun.

Every motion now is controlled, strategic, in this familiar game, circling each other with barest movements, and entirely inscrutable to anyone but themselves.

And to them, it's as illuminated as the show taking place under their passing attention.

Cool silk against his throat, smoothed over by Will's fingers as he rests his hand against his neck. An absent gesture, thoughtless of course, as his fingers stretch upward, the barest movement to settle just behind his ear, and then curl slowly back down again to rest thoughtful against his cheek.

He draws a breath, shorter than the rest, when his smallest finger comes to rest against his mouth, caught just between his teeth.

_Conditioning._

Without turning, Hannibal sees. Memorizes the motion of Will’s fingers, where they touch, where they linger. A blueprint of the treatment Will would receive upon leaving the show, with fingers and lips and gentle grazes of teeth.

He swallows, watching Will tilt his head back, a comfortable gesture, if it wasn’t completed with a gentle opening of his mouth, the tip of his tongue just barely touching his top lip.

It’s almost obscene in its subtlety, the way Will has such iron control over his body as Hannibal has over his emotions and responses. He moves it masterfully, manipulates it fully to gain every advantage and Hannibal’s attention.

And he certainly has that.

When Will’s legs part, just a little, just enough, Hannibal’s jaw works in impatience. He times his heart to the beat of the drums on stage… and waits.

_Stay still._

Will never was good with that particular insistence.

He is prone to fidgeting, of course, minuscule movements that are certainly unconscious and not at all deliberate.

Adjusting in his seat, for instance, a little stir of movement after staying still for so long. Will leans forward, hands on his legs, just enough to press himself a bit deeper into the chair.

Shoulders straight, chin raised, he leans back in the chair again and his fingers slide down the rich material of the pants he wears to just graze the inside of his thighs. Just a touch, and just a gentle press to widen them, almost as imperceptible as the way his lips part achingly slow to allow for a faint smile.

Pleased by the performance.

_Wider._

It’s a thought that comes unbidden, and Hannibal allows it. A rare flash of genuine animal desire directed entirely towards the man on his left.

Will shifts again, brings a hand to his mouth as his eyes follow the motion on stage, enthralled, for the moment, with what they actually came to see. For long enough that Hannibal’s blood cools, just a little, enough to let him concentrate for the few seconds before Will removes his hand, fingers tugging his bottom lip down with the motion.

It’s intoxicating and delicious, and Hannibal feels oddly powerless against it. Freefall.

The act ends. The applause is thunderous, and yet above it all, Hannibal hears the softly breathed moan leave Will’s lips, and he finally turns to him.

Will looks delighted, eyes wide and dark, and smile almost innocently joyful with having experienced the show. Beneath it lies the dark pleasure at having won Hannibal’s undivided attention.

The lights go up, all the performers line up on stage for their final bow, and Hannibal stands with the rest of the audience, steps just barely closer to Will when the young profiler does the same, feels the slight tremble of anticipation run through him, feels the heat of his skin through the layers between them as the standing ovation continues.

Past the narrowed looks and challenging smiles, Will does soften, as they applaud. Although willingly distracted towards the end - and that show just beginning - it's the first time he's ever seen something like this, in a place like this, or with someone like this.

A warm flush covers Will's cheeks, and his fingers brush soft across Hannibal's own when they turn to leave.

He will thank him properly, later.

As soon as their fingers part, Will straightens again, a slow rolling of his shoulders and a looseness in the way he relaxes tall, head tilted at a slight angle, cravat clinging to the curve of his neck as he finds his way out of the building in front of Hannibal.

He lengthens his strides, a new confidence cocky in his easy steps towards the car, and a constant amusement in his pale blue eyes that overlays a ferocious desire drawing up from inside of him.

Will can feel, hear, sense without looking how near Hannibal is to him as they walk. A predator, snapping at his heels, and Will does nothing to hurry his pace.

They’re past words, now, past even overt movements to prey on each others’ superior awareness, senses sharp with the promise of blood and sweat and sex and when Will extends his legs in the passenger seat of the Bentley, arching to adjust the languid length of his body against the belt it’s a movement that seems excessive by compare.

Obscene.

Blasphemous.

He grins, openly now, and catches his finger between his teeth again, streetlights striping him in gold as they pass.

He looks younger, expression relaxed and pleased and warm, and Hannibal only glances at him when they stop at lights, his smile fond, just the tilt of his head suggesting the danger seething beneath.

He doesn’t take the freeway, feels his fingers tighten against the steering wheel when Will laughs softly at that, at the fact that he will not get the chance to torment Hannibal all the way to Wolf Trap. Hannibal watches as Will adjusts his position again, knees wide and resting comfortably against the smooth leather dash in front of him.

The streets are quiet, now, the show being the last for the evening and it being nearly midnight, but Hannibal does not speed the car on. He takes every turn leisurely, keeps to the speed limit. Beside him, Will twists and bends and turns his head in deliberate impatience that sets Hannibal’s nerves humming in the most pleasing way.

Hannibal holds the door for him when they arrive, closes it behind Will before striding past him to open the front door. 

There is absolutely no change in his expression when he pins Will to the door as it closes, one hand in his hair to tilt his head back, the other against his hip to hold him prone as he kisses him, mouth open, teeth brutal against Will’s until they adjust their positions and part for air.

“It is very difficult taking you anywhere.” Hannibal murmurs, eyes hooded and down to watch Will’s lips before flicking up to meet the barely-blue eyes very close to his. “Whatever shall I do with you?”

Will tilts his head back further, eyes rolling thoughtfully skyward. He arches forward, pressing carelessly against Hannibal until it's only his shoulders against the door, as though considering the question. As though Hannibal's hand isn't fisted tight into his hair and as though Hannibal's entire being isn't pressed so heavy and close against him that it spurs his heart to racing.

He stretches his arms above his head, languid and unhurried, and folds them over each other. When he lowers his gaze, to meet Hannibal's own, there's no blue to be seen in his eyes.

Savage. Sharp. And infuriatingly pleased with himself.

And he smiles wolfish like velvet over razorblades as he leans in to press his cheek against Hannibal's and speak soft against his ear.

"I don't think this show has a very particular dress code."

His chin lifts high now, so close to Hannibal that their mouths brush when he speaks again, and grins.

“Take them off.”

Hannibal laughs, a breathy, heavy thing, and shakes his head.

“Oh, no, Will, the clothes will stay.” he watches the way the words affect Will, the way his eyes widen just barely, how, for just a moment, his brows furrow with the denial of his command where every other time it has been obeyed.

No.

Tonight Will has used his time of power to its beautiful and significant effect. Hannibal will return the gift in kind, in a way that will mark Will’s skin as the tiny gestures and deliberate motions will distract Hannibal’s mind for days.

“Your dedication to them is delightful,” he continues, “And do you know, just how tempting you are?”

It’s a tone Hannibal rarely allows himself, one low and rough and filthy where his words usually run smooth and warm from his lips. Beneath him, Will shivers and Hannibal steps closer, pins him fully to the door and rests his forehead against Will’s as he continues to whisper, continues to hold Will’s hair in a tight fist.

“Manipulative, cruel boy, your words will not save you.”

He smiles, just once, a brief wide grin, and kisses Will again, breath heavy and harsh against Will’s as Will’s is against him. He moves the hand at Will’s hip to work the buttons of his coat, those on the vest beneath, and finally to the buttons of his shirt. He keeps Will pinned, arched back and vulnerable, relishes in the soft noises and stuttered breathing Will feeds him.

Hannibal’s voice tightens in Will’s stomach, raw desire sharpening the usual warmth of it into sharp edges. Breath choked short by the bend Hannibal draws into his neck, Will grins despite it, delighted by the snarling tension of their bodies, again locked in their favorite form of combat.

Coy challenge in the curve of his lips when Will’s response drips like wine from his tongue.

" _You_ know just how tempting I am."

His eyes dart from Hannibal's narrowed gaze to watch his doctor’s hands move swift over his clothes, breath hitching in anticipation as each piece falls free, his own clothes now tight against him, a dire burden when all he wants is for Hannibal to strip him roughly and spread him bare against the door.

He reaches for the tiresome cravat and Hannibal snares his wrist, blinding fast, and pins it harshly above his head.

A feral moan growls through Will's teeth before he can stop it.

"I said _no_ , Will," a warning, growled against Will's mouth, mild enough to hint dangerously at the edge beneath it.

"Disobedient boy."

He shoves the sleek lines of his body hard against Hannibal, throbbing so hard in his pants that all he can do is seek out friction between their hips, rolling firm against him.

Depravity in the blackness of Will's eyes and the way his body grinds wanton and shameless against Hannibal. 

Debauchery in the damp flush of his parted lips and his messy hair and the scarlet hot across his cheeks like innocence defiled.

Taunting, teasing with a word so soft it can barely be heard over their shared breaths, snarling tight.

"Sir."

He's said it before, just once, and Hannibal feels the same cold rush of pleasure at hearing it again. But that is still a power Will can flex like this - he wants him helpless.

"My name, Will," he corrects gently, the hand snared in Will’s hair releases to continue the meticulous undoing of the fabric wrapping Will so beautifully within it.

"I will hear you sob my name."

He ducks his head to kiss under the cravat, over the hot skin and vibrating heartbeat, bites down only when his hand reaches the catch of Will's pants, fingers teasing over the head of Will's cock through the clothing against it.

Another gasp, breathless, as Will turns his gaze down to watch Hannibal’s fingers - extraordinary control, infuriating patience in the movements - graze against the front of his pants. He arches into the touch and growls in frustration when Hannibal withdraws his touch just enough to keep it light, barely there, teasing against him but not giving him the satisfaction of friction, heat, contact that Will wants.

Needs.

His eyes light on Hannibal’s again from beneath his hair and narrow, amused, and he grins, fingers stretching and curling against Hannibal’s hand that holds his wrist pinned to the door.

“Earn it.”

It is instinct, animalistic and hungry, when Hannibal kisses him again. It's a devouring. He smiles against Will’s lips as he undoes his pants, enough to push them around his thighs, his boxers following. Smiles wider at the groan he gets when he refuses him anything more.

_Earn it._

Give and take.

The catch on his own pants doesn't take as much effort, easy and familiar, and he lets go of Will’s wrist, delights in the genuine surprise as he hoists Will up against the door, hands firm under his thighs, feeling Will curl instinctively around him for balance and support. 

When he pulls back to breathe, Will’s eyes are wide, on him.

"My name?" Hannibal asks, tone amused and warm. Will blinks, grins, shakes his head. Hannibal hums. 

"Very well."

He steps closer, enough to pin Will fully to the door, draws up a knee for support and slides one hand lower, to stroke just barely against Will’s hole, a teasing thing to feel the muscles twitch, to hear that gasp from the young man, and feel it.

"It would be rude to ruin the clothes, Will," he whispers, "don't cum."

A fierce heat coils in Will's stomach at the words and he can't suppress a note high and eager that curls the end of his gasp.

He draws his lips against Hannibal's neck, open-mouthed kisses of desire and devotion. His fingers muss through Hannibal's hair, pushing it back from his face, and he lets his arms hang loose over Hannibal's shoulders, feels the movement and strength beneath him as he's held pinned against the door.

Another press of fingers just inside draws Will back from his reverie and he whimpers. Shifts his hips to try to drive himself against Hannibal's touch, face flushed bright.

He can't resist. Doesn't want to. Leans in and kisses Hannibal just softly - resisting the urge to devour him in return - and curls his arms around his doctor’s neck.

"Please,” he sighs, grinning as he presses his forehead fondly against Hannibal’s and nuzzles soft along the side of his nose. “Please, Doctor Lecter."

A smile that Will can feel against his face, then the barest shake of his head.

"Ask me properly." He murmurs, but there is no anger in the words, just teasing amusement. His fingers continue the gentle probing, feeling Will tense against him, shift to rock back onto his hand.

"Please."

"Again."

The fingers continue to tease, two now, barely breaching and spreading within him. The sounds Will makes above him are hushed, gentle, weak little things, but he doesn’t give. Not yet.

He’s the most beautiful thing Hannibal has ever seen. Half dressed and flushed, hair messy and soft over his face. Lips parted red and smiling.

Hannibal forces Will to take his own weight for a moment, one hand down to pull himself free with a soft grunt, stroking slow before shifting so Will can feel him there, just waiting. Hard and hot from everything Will has done.

Held fast again, Will squirms, twisting to try to press himself down on Hannibal to no avail. A baleful gaze, though with a faint smile beneath it, as Hannibal observes him with barely restrained hunger.

“Use your words,” Hannibal instructs lightly.

Will arches in his arms and chews his lip and wonders how long he could last. How long Hannibal could last, for as hard as he is. Considers testing him but knows Hannibal’s patience will always exceed his own and he releases his lower lip and runs his tongue across it.

He doesn’t do it to feel Hannibal finally fill him after an entire night of teasing. He doesn’t do it for his own relief or to watch Hannibal’s soften his features.

He does it for the affectionate, approving smile that it earns when Will runs his hand down Hannibal’s cheek and sighs, “Please, Hannibal.”

A soft kiss, pleased, and Hannibal nuzzles into Will’s hand.

"Better." A familiar game, just enough mischief before Hannibal spreads Will with his fingers and starts the slow push. It's harder, unprepared as they are, but Will twists into it regardless, pleased and gasping, pushing down with the balance Hannibal has allowed him.

It's agonizing going as slowly as they are, and Hannibal presses their foreheads together again to give Will the gentle comfort of closeness. Not that he seems perturbed by the pain beyond writhing against Hannibal to feel more of him.

Deeper, harder, more, _please._

They stay pressed together for only a moment before Hannibal exhales, quick and pleased, and sets his hands on Will’s hips to lift him again.

"Don't." He reminds him, breathless, before starting a quick, harsh rhythm, pushing Will back against the door, closer to himself, over and over. 

Will arches hard in Hannibal’s arms with a quaking moan. His eyes roll closed, electric tension in his body from how good it feels, how good it hurts as he’s pressed into the door. He drags his palm from Hannibal’s face to press fingers against his mouth instead, to slide them past his lips and feel his teeth and press against his tongue.

His mouth falls slack as Hannibal sucks slowly on them, and Will’s stomach pulls tight. His other arm twitches, desperate to drop it to his own aching length resting against the front of his coat and he tightens his fingers into a fist instead, keeping his arm across Hannibal’s shoulder.

_Don’t._

A moment of fluster that escapes as a soft whine, wrapping his legs tighter around Hannibal’s hips.

“Fuck,” a snarl through clenched teeth. “Hannibal, please.” A little less coy now, a little more desperate.

"No," Hannibal turns his head a little, feeling Will’s fingers slip against his lips.

_I will hear you sob my name._

He leans closer, enough to take the cravat between his teeth and tug it, feel Will bend harder and moan, surprised by the motion. Hannibal’s hands tighten against Will’s hips and he switches to slow, deep thrusts, aiming for the spot inside Will that sends his voice utterly weak.

"Fuck. Please!"

"No." Just as breathless, and just as relentless. One hand slides up Will’s side and curls over his shoulder, holding him still as the thrusts turn brutal and shallow.

Will’s gasps stop short in his throat, a whimper at the end of every little breath that Hannibal drives out of him.

It’s all Will can do to cling to Hannibal now, arms locked tight around his neck and thighs trembling around Hannibal’s hips as he’s fucked helpless against the door. Somewhere beneath the rush of his pulse and the sharp pain and the curls of pleasure that ripple along his spine, he wonders at the strength of Hannibal, at the power he feels pinning him in place.

“Hannibal,” Will keens soft against his ear, breath hitching imploringly, and then exploding suddenly outward in a rough gasp as Hannibal turns Will’s hips just so, angling him backwards to hit the sensitive spot inside him.

“Fuck.” Not a plea, a decision, as Will drops his arm from Hannibal’s shoulder, and reaches for his cock.

Hannibal threads his fingers with Will’s, deliberately drawing them away from where Will had intended them to go. He pins Will's wrist to the door and stills his motions.

They hold still, pressed chest to chest, Will effectively impaled in place as Hannibal raises his eyes and pants softly against Will’s lips.

"Disobedient." He sighs, "reckless. Greedy."

He kisses him, a deep and hungry thing, and groans from his own desire to hold back from this.

"Don't tempt me," he whispers, dark eyes on Will's, "to allow yourself to touch and forbid you to cum from it, Will."

He brings Will's hand close and kisses the knuckles before letting it go.

"Next time you try, that will be your torment."

Will simply smiles at this, and presses a kiss to the corner of Hannibal’s mouth. Sweet. Innocent, almost.

Part of Will - that imperiousness that shows in the gleam of his pale blue eyes - aches to try to touch himself again, knowing he’ll be made to pay for it, knowing he’ll suffer that much longer for his defiance. It’s such a sweet torment that he considers it anyway.

The other part of Will - the hands that frame Hannibal’s face and bring their mouths together with slow burning heat - wants nothing more than to please him. To let Hannibal take his pleasure from the gasps that he pushes from Will with every deep press inside of him, from the bend in Will’s back, from all the eager movement that Will relinquishes so willingly.

To feel himself be enjoyed, and draw his own enjoyment from that.

Hannibal is exquisite like this, and it makes Will’s chest tighten when he looks at him. Fierce devotion, the barest sheen of sweat along his brow, black hunger in his eyes and in the way his mouth falls just a little slack when he looks at Will and Will knows that he looks at nothing else in the world with such desire.

His hands move over Hannibal’s hair, smoothing it back where it’s fallen into his face, and he arches his spine, hips rolling, to feel Hannibal move again, groaning low when he does. Will’s limbs pull tighter around him, teeth catching his ear just lightly before he sighs Hannibal’s name against it.

Again and again, and when Will breathes his name it’s not begging - it’s worshipful, nearly a hymn, moaned low each time Hannibal buries himself.

Neither will last long like this. Hannibal can feel the delicious coil low in his belly, the tug and need and want to just let go. He feels Will against him, heavy and hard and absolutely gone with pleasure.

This. This he loves.

He hooks one arm around Will to hold him up, the other he curls in the cravat, twisting just enough to have Will’s chin tilt, to kiss just under it, to bite there.

He knows this body, this man, intimately enough to no longer need words for this. He knows Will is close by how he shudders, how hard his hands press against Hannibal’s shoulders. He relishes the soft moan that he feels against his skin, relishes when finally, perhaps involuntarily, Will’s breathing stutters on his name.

“Oh, Will,”

 _Mine_ , he thinks, _mine, mine, mine…_

Subsumed as much by Hannibal’s pleasure as his own, Will feels his stomach tensing in quick, electric twists each time Hannibal drives into him. As though it was Will that had Hannibal pinned to the door. As though it were Will’s rough, ravenous thrusts driving into Hannibal instead.

Eyes rolled closed and lips parted wide and damp, Will presses his fingers against Hannibal’s jaw, his other hand dropping from his shoulders to wrap around beneath his arm.

Mirroring the way Hannibal holds him, lost entirely in fierce possession of each other.

Lost so deep that when Hannibal’s body tenses harsh and sudden and he drives Will against the door with a single hard exhalation of his name, Will feels his own tension unfurl just as suddenly, his body pulsing release in time with Hannibal’s own.

Will uncurls his toes first, releases the snared grip of his fingers against Hannibal, and blinks wide beneath his hair, sighing long, shaking breaths and only then remembers Hannibal’s admonitions.

They both rest together, Hannibal panting harsh against Will’s skin, eyes closed as he feels Will tremble with him, smiles at the way Will’s body seems to be returning to himself.

He seems to grow heavier, with the energy and fight gone out of him, but Hannibal doesn’t step back to lower him to the ground yet, he just holds him, lets Will find a way to hold him back, soft stroking fingers, and waits.

And inevitably - 

“I’ll wash it.”

The laugh comes slow, a deep rumbling in Hannibal’s chest more than a sound, and his smile widens. When he looks up at Will his expression is entirely open, happy. And very much amused.

“Dry clean, Will, you do not wash this material.” he murmurs, laughter shaking his words. “And I will do it.”

Will's flushed embarrassment at the thought of someone else resolving these particular stains is replaced with a shaky, grateful grin as Hannibal volunteers to take it for him. Their mouths press together warmly, spreading slow against the other as Will sinks his arms deep around Hannibal's neck.

Another moment, like so many, when Hannibal removes his worries before Will can even give voice to them. Soothes them away with a gentle control and the kind of awareness that can only bloom from a particular watchfulness.

An affection, deep and abiding, shared by both.

Pleased and warm and half-dressed and utterly drawn into Hannibal, Will presses their foreheads together again and closes his eyes.

"You don't have to keep holding me," he suggests with faint amusement, despite how firmly he remains wrapped around his doctor, gentle kisses punctuating his words. "But you can. If you want to."

A hum, Hannibal’s eyes barely open though he returns every kiss Will gives him. Soft, sweet things.

“I suppose I could drop you.” he agrees, steps closer for just a moment and mirrors the gasp Will makes when he finally pulls from his body. A pleased groan follows.

He gently works to set Will to his feet, but his hands don’t leave Will’s sides, and he takes half a step closer to have them pressed from hip to chest together again. He draws one hand against the side of Will’s face and kisses him, a languid slow thing, before pulling back to breathe.

“I did tell you not to.” he reminds him softly, more amusement than genuine anger in his narrowed eyes.

Now it’s Will’s turn to hum thoughtfully, a smile catching the corner of his mouth as he tugs his pants up from where they sat around his thighs. He leans back against the door, curving against Hannibal as he moves nearer again, to keep them pressed close.

“You did,” Will agrees, palms spread against the door. He chases Hannibal’s mouth with his own, stealing a few soft kisses before leaning back again, hair in his face and a drowsy contentment in his eyes, skin still flushed warm.

“And after such a pleasant evening, too,” Will murmurs. He studies Hannibal’s face, the way his severity is softened when he’s like this, and turns just a little into the hand against his cheek. “It is very difficult taking me anywhere,” he echoes lightly, amused. “Whatever shall you do with me?”

Hannibal’s eyes crinkle in pleasure and he tilts his head.

“Dear boy.” he says softly, strokes the pad of his thumb lightly over Will’s bottom lip before letting his hand fall away.

“I’m going to make you do it again.”


End file.
